Everything Was You

A poem dies in me. I `for you again

A poem dies in me.
I search for you again
deep in my breast.

The initial spurt of
the raging thought-
sleeps on the rags.

With scrawny fingers-
you write a verse of-
moon in night.

The half-moons rise
in the vacant looks
like venus flytrap.

Do not pluck the-
blood roses. My fingers
were still bleeding.